Beneath the Cyprus Moon
by r4ven3
Summary: Veering from S.10 canon, Ruth has taken extended leave, and Harry travels to Cyprus to look for her. His leave takes a strange turn when he meets someone he hasn't seen in a long time. 5 chapters plus an epilogue.
1. Chapter 1

Late August 2011:

Harry stands at the edge of a grassy verge overlooking the sea. Behind him, a group of teenagers burst into laughter, a cacophony of youth, their exuberance leaving him feeling older and wearier than his fifty-seven years. Only minutes earlier he'd walked past them on his way to the beach. He'd counted four boys and four girls, their bodies draped like artists' models over chairs arranged haphazardly around a large round wooden table. Not one of the eight had noticed him. After all, he is just another middle-aged man, and so to the optimistic eyes of youth he is invisible. He stands for a long moment gazing across the water, pondering Ruth's whereabouts. He'd hoped he'd find her here, but given it is his fourth day on the island, she appears to be elsewhere.

Immediately after he'd told her about Sasha Gavrik being his son, she had turned from him, barely able to hide her confusion and hurt. His motive in disclosing one of his more shameful personal secrets had been to hopefully gain her trust. He hadn't meant to hurt her. The following day she'd announced she was taking leave.

"For how long?" he'd asked.

"For as long as it takes," had been her obscure reply.

"Towers wants to speak with you … about a job."

She'd nodded, turning from him, and then she'd stopped, half way to the door of his office. "As .. enticing as that sounds, I haven't taken leave since I returned to London from Cyprus, and … HR informed me I have quite a lot owing."

"Of course," he'd replied quietly. It was clear to him that she needed some time alone, some time away from the Grid, and from him. He could hardly blame her. They'd been so uncomfortable around one another, and so for her to take a couple of weeks leave might be a good thing. She would return refreshed, and he'd have time to think of some other way to approach her, something which wouldn't have her turning away from him, her face a portrait of hurt and rejection.

That had been almost eight weeks earlier, and she still hadn't returned, so Harry is searching for her, and where better to begin than in Cyprus?

Despite wearing sun glasses, Harry squints, the reflected light from the water like so many lasers, aimed directly at his eyes. He unconsciously hitches up his trousers, the unfamiliar softness of the light fabric against his thighs like wearing no trousers at all. He lifts one hand to his throat, the sun kissing skin which hasn't seen daylight for months. He smiles. Just knowing that Ruth may have stood on this very spot, her beautiful eyes trained on the same body of water is almost enough to bring him comfort, although not nearly as much comfort as her being with him at that moment.

He is overcome by a paralysis familiar to him during his infrequent attempts at taking a break from work. Should he take a walk along the beach, or head back the way he'd come? Exercise in the Cyprian sun, or indulge in another coffee under the shade of a wide umbrella? Neither option feels quite right, but after a minute or so, he decides that a walk would be better for him than sitting down, since most of his days at work are spent with his backside planted firmly in a chair. He briefly contemplates the wisdom of walking in the sun without a hat to protect his face and scalp, when he is stopped by a youthful voice from behind his shoulder.

"Uncle Harry?"

The voice is male. He has no nephews, so who …? The voice possesses a familiar underlying tone, and he spins around on the spot, to lift his eyes to those of a young man of around six feet in height. The spiky blond hair above the clear blue eyes takes him back … oh, around four or five years. Is it? Could it be? It is.

"Wes Carter," Harry says, taking a small step closer to the almost-grown-up Wes, his hand outstretched in greeting, as the young man nods. "It's good to see you," he continues, shaking Wes's hand.

"You too, Uncle Harry." Wes grins down at Harry, his eyes dancing.

Wes is tall and handsome, his blue eyes direct and clear, the pudginess of childhood having given way to an angular bone structure, and a long-limbed body. How old would he be now? Thirteen? Fourteen? Harry does a rapid calculation in his head. "You're fourteen?" he asks.

"Fifteen actually. I turned fifteen in January."

"Jesus," Harry exclaims, "what are they feeding you? Miracle Gro?"

Wes smiles widely, eyeing Harry for a long moment. "What are you doing in Cyprus, Uncle Harry?"

"Please .. call me Harry," Harry says quickly, "after all, you're almost a man."

"Tell that to my Nan and Pop. They still think I'm nine." Harry knows he is staring at Wes. The lad's resemblance to Adam is startling, and even a little unsettling. Despite the joy of seeing Wes again, Harry experiences a moment of deep sadness. He has missed Adam, but he has never allowed himself to grieve the deaths of Wes's parents. "And I know I look like my dad," Wes continues, as if able to read Harry's mind. "Everyone says so. I rather like it that I do."

Harry nods. "And so you should." Harry's own son resembles him also, which only elicits irritation in Graham. Last time he saw his son, he had dyed his hair black, and grown a beard in an attempt to change his appearance. Despite his attempt to disguise his parentage, Graham Pearce still looks like his father.

"Wes? Are you coming with us?" Another teenage boy, a little shorter and stockier than Wes, and with dark hair and sad brown eyes, hovers some distance from them, while Wes's other companions begin to amble away, chatting amongst themselves.

"I'll catch up with you later. This is my Uncle Harry." Wes adds, grinning at the other boy. "I haven't seen him in – like – forever."

"You don't have to keep me company," Harry says quietly, once the dark-eyed boy has caught up with the others. "I'm used to my own company."

Wes grins and nods, "No probs. That lot are prone to talking shite, and I'd rather like a walk along the beach. I haven't kept up my training schedule."

Wes begins to walk away along the sand, and so Harry quickly catches up, finding it hard to believe that on this far flung island in the Mediterranean, tucked between Turkey and Lebanon, he has stumbled upon the orphaned son of two of his former operatives. The chances of that happening must be millions to one.

"You're still playing rugby?"

"Yeah, but I've had a few injuries and my Nan and Pop want me to pack it in." Wes is silent for a while before he continues. "What do you think, Uncle Harry? Do you think I should put my rugby playing days behind me?"

"Harry … please, Wes, call me Harry. Uncle Harry makes me sound like one of those men who carries boiled lollies in their pockets."

Wes stops, grinning widely, his eyes sparkling … so much like Adam's. "We had one of those at school when I was about eleven. His name was Mr Murdoch. We'd call him Mr Murder, because we were sure he was planning to seduce us and then murder us, before burying our bodies under the cricket pitch."

"He was a games teacher?"

"No. Geography. He was rubbish at it. He couldn't tell north from south. In the end, he was given an early retirement."

Harry has so many questions for Wes, and he has no idea how to broach most of them. Do you miss your dad? Is your life a good one? Are you happy? What are you doing in the very same town Ruth Evershed had lived for almost two years? Were he being truthful, the last question is the one he most wants answered.

Only then does Harry remember the question Wes has asked him. "And about rugby," he says quietly, "If you still enjoy playing rugby, then keep playing. You're only young for a very short time."

Wes's laugh comes out as a snort. "That's what everyone says. I think it's probably bollocks. I intend to be young forever."

Harry is somewhat shocked by the lad's open and outgoing nature. As a child, he had been quiet and shy, and wary around his father's boss. This young man is more like Adam had been, and Harry can't help feeling bad that he'd allowed Wes to grow up without maintaining regular contact with the lad. It's just that as the years had passed, Harry's life had become busier than ever, with little time for a personal life.

They continue to chat quietly, mostly about Wes's life at school, until they reach a long wooden bench beneath a group of lean Cyprus trees, angled towards the sea, as though a relentless wind has tried to blow them over. Without speaking, they both sit down, turning so that they can still see the beach. Harry wishes he'd thought to bring a drink.

"I'll buy you a beer when we get back," Wes says cheekily, noticing Harry take out a clean handkerchief to wipe his brow.

"You will not," Harry replies quickly, "although I'd accept a squash or a lemonade."

They sit in silence for several minutes, both watching the ocean as the tide goes out, the water's edge being very gradually pulled out to sea. Harry is about to say something, when Wes speaks, his voice deep and quiet.

"I know what my mum and dad did for a living," he says, and Harry turns to look at him, to see that Wes's eyes are burning into his own. "I know they were spies, and that they served their country, and ultimately sacrificed their lives."

Harry doesn't know what to say. Not long after Adam had died, he had had a long conversation with Wes's grandparents, and both had sworn to never tell Wes what his parents did, or how they had died. "How did you find out?" Harry asks.

Wes grins, and then drops his eyes. "One afternoon when my Nan and Pop were out I pretended to be sick. I broke into Pop's desk where he keeps private documents and stuff. It was all there … the insurance policies which pay for my keep and my education, along with the name of my parents' employer," he says quietly.

"How long have you known?"

"A couple of years." He shifts restlessly on the bench. "At first I was really angry. I didn't talk to Nan and Pop for a month. I stayed at school on my weekends, shut in my room sulking." Wes again drops his eyes. "And I cried an awful lot."

"I'm so sorry, Wes."

"It's not your fault."

"I suspect it is. I was their boss, after all. The buck had to stop somewhere."

"I've thought a lot about this. I knew you were their boss, and I knew that meant you gave the orders, but they chose that life. They brought me into the world, but they went out each day, taking massive risks." While he's been speaking, Wes has been gazing out to sea. "If anyone at all is to blame, then it's them. I just wished they'd been accountants … or teachers. Christ, I'd rather be living in some crummy council house, attending a local school, if it meant having my parents alive and with me." Wes turns to Harry, holding his eyes. "You've got kids. What do they think of what you do for a living?"

Harry sighs heavily. As much as he doesn't wish to answer Wes's question, he knows he must. "Not much. My job took me away from them for most of their childhoods. My son has never forgiven me for that."

"Yeah, well, your son needs to grow up."

Harry has to agree with Wes. He imagines that with early orphanhood comes wisdom. They sit in silence for another few minutes, each lost inside their own thoughts. Harry is glad to be spending time with Wes, but he can't help the guilt which grips his throat. "Wes ..." he says carefully.

"I remember that day," Wes says, as if Harry hadn't spoken. "I remember the day you came to tell me my dad was dead. I knew as soon as I saw you what you were about to say." This time it is Wes who sighs, his chest rising and then falling with his breath. "I wanted you to go away, but I also wanted you to give me a hug. When you put your arms around me, it was like you were telling me I wasn't alone in the world."

"I'm sorry I haven't … kept in touch."

"I know why you stopped coming." Again, Wes turns his head to catch Harry's eye. "It hurts for you to see me … doesn't it?"

Harry is embarrassed to find tears springing to his own eyes. When one tear escapes, rolling down his cheek, he turns away, gazing down the beach, to the market in the distance. "Yes," he says quietly.

"So much sadness," Wes says at last. "There seems to be sadness everywhere I look. That's why I try to remain cheerful. I don't want you to be sad … Harry. There's no point in that."

Such wisdom from one so young. Harry quickly pulls himself together, before again turning towards Wes. "Where are you staying?" he asks. "Are your grandparents with you?"

"Nan and Pop no longer fly. Pop can't on account of his dicky heart, and Nan has to stay with him. She's quite a lot younger than he is, so it's hard for her." He looks into Harry's eyes, and a slow smile changes his expression from serious to playful. "I have this mate I met online. He's a gamer, like me, and then my school was twinned with his school in Nicosia, so we were able to write to one another -"

"Write? You mean, letters?"

"Text messages, Harry, or Facebook. Mostly we Skype, or just talk over Steam while we're gaming." Harry shakes his head. The world has become so very small. When had that happened? "I'm staying with him and his family. He's - like - my best mate, and he lives in Polis, Cyprus. He was the one who asked me was I joining the others."

Harry tries to remember the days when he had `mates', people with whom he spent time away from work. Since Bill Crombie there hasn't really been anyone … aside from Ruth, and she's always been a little out of his reach, more a longed-for companion than a mate.

"So," Wes continues, watching Harry closely, "I'm guessing you're here to meet Ruth."

Harry is so shocked by his statement that he is stuck for something to say. "Ruth Evershed?" he asks.

"How many Ruths do you know? Of course Ruth Evershed."

"She's here? In Polis?" Harry can feel the blood rushing to his head, his pulse thundering. He hopes he's not headed for a heart attack. What an irony that would be.

"Not today, no. Last week she flew to Athens to see a friend from the time she was living here." Harry wonders if the friend is male or female. "Apparently this woman is a cousin of George's .. you know, the guy she was living with."

Of course he remembers George. With that one sentence spoken by Wes, Harry is once again in that room with Ruth, both with their hands tied behind their backs, watching the images of George and his son kicking a ball around in the back garden of a safe house. _Safe_ house! It was hardly safe, not for George or his son. Harry swallows the nausea which threatens to surface as he relives that awful moment. There is something worming its way to the surface, something he should have noticed earlier. "How come you met Ruth?" he says carefully.

"She's my friend's former step-mother."

"Your friend – your online mate is -"

"Nick Kyriakou," Wes says with a smile. "Like me, he's also an orphan, so we have that in common. What are the chances?"

Harry breathes out heavily. The orphaned son of Adam and Fiona Carter is here in Polis, staying with Nico Kyriakou, who is the step son of the woman he loves. It is almost too much to take in, but take it in he must … and soon. "So ..." he begins carefully, "is Ruth returning to Polis?"

"You must know that her leave is almost over, so she's returning on Sunday, and I think she's planning to fly back to London soon after that."

Sunday. It's only three days until Sunday. Seventy-two hours. Three sleeps. For the first time in hours, Harry allows his face to relax in a smile.

* * *

 _ **A/N : I have quite deliberately made Wes older than in canon. I'm not sure a 13-yr-old would be as confident as the Wes I have written, so in this he is 2 years older.**_


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N : M-ish later in this chapter.**_

* * *

For the next three days Harry has to keep himself busy, or else he'll think too much, perhaps even talk himself into flying straight back to London. He and Wes keep in touch by phone, and they meet again on Saturday morning at the market, where Harry buys them each a Coke. As he carries the drinks back to their table, he contemplates the last time he drank Coke, surely no time in the last two decades.

"Whiskey is my preferred drink," he says, placing the half litre glass of Coke in front of Wes.

"Be my guest," Wes replies. "I can't bear whiskey. It tastes like cat's piss."

"And I take it you've tried both?"

Wes grins widely, before guzzling his drink. "Not of late," he says, "but I have sampled Pop's whiskey collection. Like I said … cat's piss."

"Do you have plans for tonight?"

"Yeah. Just the crowd you saw me with on Thursday afternoon. We'll probably see a movie or something."

"Do you have a girlfriend?" Harry slips the question in by stealth, something at which he excels.

Wes looks up sharply. "Not really. Most girls think I'm a smart arse. Nick quite likes Georgia. She's the one with the curly dark hair."

Harry can't remember any of the girls from their meeting on Thursday. "Is she interested in him?"

Wes shrugs, his thin shoulders moving as if disconnected from the rest of him. "Who knows? He thinks she is, but she flirts with everyone, including me. Nick's just turned fourteen, so he has a lot to learn. I just go with the flow."

Oh to be free to `go with the flow'. Harry feels like he is organising a major operation, while all he's doing is attempting to set up a meeting with Ruth. Knowing that Wesley Carter sees more than he lets on, Harry chooses his words carefully. "Do you know when Ruth is arriving? It's just that I'd quite like to see her. I need to speak to her … alone."

For a long moment, Wes watches Harry, saying nothing, silently weighing up the situation. "She texted me from Athens," he says quietly, his eyes still on Harry. "She's arriving late morning tomorrow, and returning to her room at the Iona Inn."

"She not staying with Nico's family?"

"God, no. Nick's aunt would most likely stab her in her sleep were she to stay there. She took forever before she even agreed for Ruth to speak with him face to face. It was Nick who had to beg her to let him see Ruth. Nick has made whining into an art form."

"And why would Nico's aunt want to do Ruth harm? Ruth wouldn't hurt anyone."

"It's something to do with how Nick's Dad died. Nick told me that his aunt said that if his Dad hadn't known Ruth, he'd still be alive. Nick just wants to see Ruth because he feels he owes her … for looking after him. I don't know the whole story."

Harry sighs heavily, taking a sip of his Coke, and then making a face when he tastes the sickly sweetness of the drink. Poor Ruth. Here she is, having to dance to the tune being played by Nico's aunt. Chances are his need to speak with her alone will only add to her already complicated visit to Cyprus. He looks up to see Wes watching him closely, the boy's mind ticking over.

"Harry ..." he begins carefully, "are you and Ruth … you know?"

"You'll have to be more specific than that, Wes."

Again, Wes watches Harry, his blue eyes steady. "Is Ruth your girlfriend?"

Harry should have seen it coming, but he'd believed Wes to be more discreet, more polite than that. "No, Wes, she's not my girlfriend."

"But you wish she was."

"Why do you say that?"

"I can see it in your eyes when you speak of her. There's something there. You … like her."

"Yes, Wes, I like her." And to stop the lad from further questioning, Harry gives him clear instructions about what to do when Ruth returns to Cyprus the following day. "You'll pass that message on to her?" Harry says, just to make certain Wes has been listening.

"Sure. Who doesn't like a happy ending?" Wes throws back the remainder of his Coke. Harry has hardly touched his. "There's just one thing," Wes adds, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, "why don't you just knock on her hotel door and hope she'll let you in, or better still, I give you her phone number so you can make your own arrangements with her?"

If only it were that simple, but how to explain that to a fifteen-year-old? "Because I need her to .. _want_ to see me," Harry replies.

Wes frowns slightly, and then his face relaxes in a smile. "Cunning. I can see you've done this sort of thing before. Perhaps you could give me lessons."

Harry can't help but smile. Wes is definitely his father's son.

* * *

Late Sunday afternoon:

Harry gasps as the water reaches his genitals, the cold water sending his balls scuttling up towards his body. How can the water be that cold when the air is warm enough to bring a sweat to his brow? Once the water reaches his waist he dives in, his arms outstretched in front of him. When he surfaces, he strikes out in a confident freestyle towards the horizon.

Since Thursday Harry has daily visited the secluded bay just beyond the bench where he and Wes had sat and chatted. It had been deserted that day, and each day since. Harry suspects that visitors to Polis would rather swim somewhere close to the cafés and the marina, rather than venture along the sand to this small slice of paradise tucked between the rocks. When he'd mentioned to Wes that he swam at this beach each afternoon, Wes had suggested it was a beach reserved for nudists. "Keep your kecks on, Harry," he'd said. "You never know who might be watching."

For these few days on this island he can tell himself that he is the only one who knows it exists. Perhaps it is here just for his use, and once he returns to London, the beach will again disappear into some parallel realm, never to be seen again, instantly disappearing from all maps of the island.

Once his arms begin to tire, Harry stops swimming and treads water, turning to see the shore in the distance. He is surprised to see a figure on the beach – a woman – and she appears to be watching him. It can't be … can it? The woman waves, and when a breeze blows her hair over her face, he knows it is Ruth. No other woman he knows pushes her hair off her face in the same weary, languid way that Ruth does. He lifts his hand in a half wave, and then takes a deep breath before once again pushing himself through the water. This time he isn't striking out towards the horizon. This time he has a reason to swim as fast as he can. This time he is swimming towards Ruth.

Harry finds her at the water's edge, his towel in her hands, as he wades in knee deep water towards her. He is momentarily embarrassed by the knowledge that his wet bathing costume is clinging to his groin and thighs, so that nothing in that general area of his body is hidden from view. While he's no Daniel Craig, he also knows that he measures up well for his age. Harry keeps his eyes on Ruth, to see she has noticed how his swimming trunks cleave to his body. If his assessment is correct, her expression is one of interest.

"I expected to be seeing you later," Harry says, taking the towel from her outstretched hands, and wiping his face and hair, and then quickly wrapping it around his waist, covering his swimming trunks.

"Hello to you too," she replies with a small smile.

Harry ignores her as he grabs his shirt and quickly puts it on. "You're either not meeting me later, or you're eager to see me," he says, leading her to the knee high flat rock under which his he'd shoved his possessions so that they are out of sight. Only his towel had been draped over the rock, where he now indicates she should sit.

Ruth sits in a way which Harry thinks appears self-conscious and uneasy. He sits on the rock beside her, but with distance between them; after all, the last conversation they'd shared had been stilted and uncomfortable. She turns slightly towards him, her hands grasped tightly in her lap. "I only arrived back this morning," she says, "and I'd promised Nico I'd take him to dinner this evening."

Harry nods, telling himself that at least Ruth has gone to the trouble of seeking him out and letting him know that she wouldn't be turning up at the restaurant that evening. "Then perhaps I should cancel our booking," he says, disappointed.

Ruth nods. "Why don't you join Nico and me? I'm sure he won't mind."

"If he knows who I am, I suspect he'll mind rather a lot, Ruth."

Ruth waits for a long moment, watching him. "I rang Nico an hour ago, and told him that we may have company."

"Me?"

"Why not?" For the first time since he'd stood beside her at the water's edge, Ruth smiles.

Harry doesn't especially want to have dinner with Ruth and Nico. He has nothing against the lad, but he'd much rather share dinner with Ruth only, with no hangers-on. "Perhaps," Harry says carefully, "we can have dinner another night … before you return to London."

Harry is surprised when Ruth reaches out and places one hand on his forearm. "Does seeing Nico up close scare you?" she asks kindly.

"Of course not. I've faced terrorists nose to nose, Ruth. How can a teenage boy frighten me?"

Ruth watches him so closely that Harry breaks eye contact. "I suspect Nico scares you more than all the terrorists combined."

He has no answer to that, so he turns to stare out over Chrysochous Bay to watch an over-sized motor launch heading towards the marina on the other side of Polis. He feels Ruth's fingers squeeze his arm before her hand falls away. "Speak to me, Harry. I need to know what's on your mind."

He turns back to her, surprised by her honesty. He and Ruth have always spoken to one another in an obscure, convoluted language which even they barely understand. "There's a lot I have to tell you," he says, "and we can't speak openly in front of the boy."

"Is what you have to tell me about … George?"

Harry shakes his head. "A lot has happened since you took leave."

Ruth breaks eye contact with him, staring down the beach towards the market. She is chewing her lip between her teeth, which tells him that she is thinking. By the time she turns back to him, Harry's anxiety level is almost through the roof, and he is sure she is contemplating getting up and leaving him here on his own, with no alternate arrangement in place.

"I have an idea," she says, dropping her eyes so that she is watching his mouth. "I'm meeting Nico at six-thirty, and so I imagine he'll not want to spend all evening with me. He'll want to leave early, so that he can meet Wes." Ruth lifts her eyes to meet Harry's. "We can meet somewhere once my dinner with Nico ends."

* * *

Ruth has messaged him to say Nico has left, so he is walking to her hotel, only a short walk from his own. The Iona Inn is an old building constructed of local stone, but inside it is as modern as any hotel dotted around the Mediterranean. There is a lounge bar where hotel patrons can entertain visitors, and in there he finds Ruth sitting alone at a small table about as far from the bar as she could be. "Can I get you a drink?" Harry asks, and when she nods, he heads back to the bar to order a bottle of local white wine for Ruth, and a whiskey for himself. A waiter will deliver their drinks, so he returns to Ruth, pleased that her eyes follow him all the way, eventually lifting to meet his own eyes. By the time he sits opposite her, he is feeling rather warm, and is glad he'd chosen to wear a short-sleeved, open-necked shirt.

Their drinks are delivered, and while they try their whiskey and wine they remain silent. Ruth watches him, while he wonders where he should begin. Harry carefully places his glass on the table in front of him before sitting back in his chair, his eyes on Ruth. She is dressed casually in a floral dress, belted around her waist. Her dress accentuates her figure so that Harry can't help but wonder (for around the thousandth time) how the bare skin beneath her clothing would feel beneath his fingers, and how it would taste. He has no sooner had that thought than Ruth lifts her eyes to his throat, where her gaze lingers for a long time. At this rate they'll not even progress to having a conversation. Harry swallows.

"There are some things you need to know, Ruth," he begins quietly, "about events in London .. while you've been on leave." She lifts her gaze from his shoulders to his eyes. "Quite a lot happened, and Towers suggested it was best I ... leave London for a while ..." Ruth lifts her eyebrows in a question, but doesn't speak. "… just until the CIA have left."

"You must have upset them, then." Ruth is smiling.

"You could say that. I … was held responsible for the death of Jim Coaver."

With that statement, Ruth places her glass of wine firmly on the table top and sits up straight in her chair. Her semi-flirting expression changes immediately to one of concern. "And were you?"

"Probably. They needed someone to blame, and that someone happened to be me, but … that's not all that happened." Ruth is still paying close attention, so he continues. "The Russian delegation returned to Moscow early, and without signing the trade agreement."

"Oh, dear."

"When the news reached Towers that I was Sasha Gavrik's father, I was removed from security duty … just of the Russians, but ..." Noticing that with the mention of Sasha Gavrik, Ruth had sat back, dropping her eyes to her drink, Harry soldiers on. "It emerged just before they left that Sasha isn't my son, and Elena had known all along."

Ruth's eyes flick up to meet his. "She lied to you?"

"Well, yes, she did. She's a spy, and lying goes with the territory." His words bring a small smile to her lips, and she lifts her glass to take a sip of wine. For a brief moment, Harry envies the glass. "She'd used Sasha to manipulate me, and I ..."

"You fell for it for thirty years."

"Hook, line and sinker."

"You must have wanted him to be your son, Harry."

Harry thinks about that for a moment. Ruth has hit upon the very thing he doesn't wish to acknowledge about himself, but this is the woman he loves, and he is determined to be honest with her. He drops his eyes before he speaks. "I .. suppose that's true."

Ruth has heard all the rumours about Harry's son. She has heard about the young man's rejection of Harry, and his drug use, although word has it that he is at last on the straight and narrow. Harry has never once, in all the years she's known him, mentioned his son to her. "Why would you want Sasha to be your son, when you already have a son?"

Harry darts a look at Ruth. She is watching him carefully. She knows. It is as though she can see right into the very core of him. "I can't answer that."

"Then try, Harry."

Harry takes a swig of his drink, and then sits back. "I suppose … were I being truthful … that I'd imagined having a son who worked in the same business as mine … well, it's what a father wants from his child."

"Is it? Is it really? What about your own son?"

Harry shakes his head in defeat. He doesn't know what to say. The shame he feels wearies him. "My son is … his own man," he says at last, so quietly Ruth can hardly hear him.

Ruth decides they need a change of pace. She quickly stands, having pushed her glass to the middle of the table. "It's warm out," she says. "I think we should go for a walk."

* * *

Harry hadn't particularly wanted to follow Ruth outside into the warm night air. He'd wanted another drink, and then another, followed by another. Ruth has led him down several narrow alleyways, and then along the esplanade until it had become little more than a narrow track, until she turns off the track, through the trees, and onto the beach. He recognises the beach. It is _his_ beach, the one where he's been swimming each afternoon since the day he met Wes.

To Harry's delight, Ruth grasps his hand in hers, and removes her strappy sandals, carrying them in her other hand. He is wearing socks with expensive shoes, but for once he doesn't much care if they are ruined by the sand and the salt water. She drags him close to the water's edge, smiling up into his eyes.

"This is the best time of the day to be here," she says, her eyes glowing in the light from the crescent moon.

Harry nods. He'll agree with almost anything she says right now, so when she turns to him, reaching up to cradle his face in her hand, he can't help himself. Afterwards, he'll blame the warm night, or the light breeze against their skin. He'll say it was the heady scents of the ocean, or the whiskey; perhaps it was Ruth's eyes, her full lips, or even the moon, drawing him to her just as it beckons the tide. Whatever it is, he is drawn to her in a way he can't resist. He slides his arms around her, and feels her push her body against him. He bends down to kiss her, and she reaches up to meet his lips with her own. As he begins kissing her, he feels her fingers winding through the longer hair at the back of his neck, while she presses her body against him, causing an instant reaction in his own. He doesn't care that his arousal is rapid, pressing against her belly, or that he has one hand on her buttocks, pulling her closer still, so that she grinds her hips against him, eliciting a moan from deep in his throat.

They can't be doing this here. They are alone on the beach, but there is no blanket, there is no soft place to lie together. They are kissing, and with one hand he holds her against him, while the other has opened the buttons down the front of her dress, pushing the fabric over her shoulders, and to her waist. He removes her bra, and then bends to take a nipple between his lips. He is intoxicated by her, and he wants her more than any woman he has ever known in his life.

They cannot continue this without a place to lie. He's not about to make love to Ruth on the sand. With the greatest of self control, he pulls away from her, and looks into her eyes, large and dark. Her lips are full, and he wants to kiss them again and again. "Ruth," he says at last, "why did you bring me here? We can't be … doing this here."

She reaches up to kiss him, but he pulls away. Something is happening here, and he needs to know what it is.

"I wanted this to happen before I ..." she begins, then drops her eyes.

"Before what, Ruth?"

"Before I told you that I'm thinking of staying here .. in Polis .. to be near Nico."

Harry feels his erection diminish almost as instantly as it had appeared. " _What_? What do you mean? Your leave must almost be over." He stares at her, only then recognising that she is standing in front of him topless, something he had imagined in many a daydream.

"No," she says, "I mean, I'm considering staying here … to live."


	3. Chapter 3

Harry takes a step back. It is as though Ruth has slapped him. He can't look at her. What had she been thinking? She's led him to this beach, almost succeeded in seducing him, only to announce that she wants to stay in Cyprus .. to live.

"You can't do that," he says, upset and angry. "You can't do .. _this_ .. with me, and then announce that you're staying here … forever."

"I know," she says at last, dropping her eyes. "It won't work at all."

 _Jesus_. Now what? "What won't work?"

"Me living here, while you're in London."

Harry sighs heavily. How like Ruth to confuse an issue which should be cut and dried. "So, you're not staying here? You'll come home when your leave is over?"

"Is that why you came to Cyprus? To take me home?"

"No, Ruth. I came to Cyprus to see you, and hopefully to spend some quiet time with you away from London, away from … all that." He gestures with a wide sweep of his arm. "And I needed to tell you about Sasha not being my son. I owed you that."

Ruth nods, and Harry waits for her response. Again, she reaches out to grasp his hand, and he almost pulls his hand away from hers, but he is intrigued, and he needs to know what is going on in that head of hers. Ruth glances down and sees her nakedness, so she turns away from him to put on her bra, then adjust her dress, closing the buttons down the front. She then guides him to the flat rock they'd sat on earlier in the day, and sits down, patting the rock beside her. He does as she suggests, but maintains a safe distance from her. He still doesn't know what is going on, but he needs to know … he _really_ wants to know. "Tell me what this is about," he says at last.

Ruth sits beside him, facing ahead of her, her hands in her lap, winding around each other in that familiar gesture of anxiety. "I want to accompany Nico to Nicosia when he returns there on Friday. School begins in a week. Wes was going to accompany him, but has decided to return home in a few days for his grandmother's birthday."

"And Nico's aunt approves of … you being Nico's chaperone?"

Ruth lifts her eyes to Harry's, and only then, in the light of the moon, does he see the sadness there. He'd been so angry with her, both when she'd left London so quickly, and then when she'd come on to him, for what reason he still doesn't know. She has to have her reasons, so he'll listen while she speaks, hoping he understands her. Harder still will be accepting her decision to remain in Cyprus.

"Christina wants me having nothing to do with Nico. She's sure my presence in his life will put him in danger." Ruth hesitates, drops her eyes, and waits. Harry waits with her. "He's happy for me to accompany him back to school, but I have no idea how he really feels about me. I can't help feeling that when George died, so did my chances of being a mother .. to Nico. I loved that child so much ..."

"Loved?"

"Yes, loved. He's almost a stranger to me now, but I can't seem to let him go."

Feeling a wave of love and compassion for Ruth, Harry slides closer to her, and slips one arm around her shoulders. With his hand he coaxes her closer until he feels her head resting on his shoulder, at the same time as she breathes out in a heavy sigh. "We should have had children, Ruth," Harry says against her hair. He feels her nodding, and then he kisses the top of her head. "I'm too old to want more children now, but we could have had one or two .. a few years ago." When she doesn't react, he continues. "I just need to know about what happened tonight … on the beach. Why did you .. do that?" He wants to add that it was something he'd wanted for a very long time, but he hadn't wanted it like that, in a way which was desperate, the timing and the place all wrong.

Feeling Ruth needing to sit up straight, Harry loosens his hold on her shoulders. She turns to face him. "I couldn't resist you, Harry. And I don't know why it was I chose that moment, and this place. I suppose it seemed like the right place and the right time. I'm sorry it wasn't what you wanted."

He almost laughs at that, but he doesn't, because no doubt Ruth would interpret it as him laughing at her, rather than him laughing at the sheer irony of it all. "It was everything I've always wanted," he says quietly, suddenly overcome by a deep grief for how much the two of them have lost by not being together. "I needed you to want me for the right reasons, Ruth."

"And isn't deep desire the right reason?"

"Not always, and not in this instance. Do you still want me … like that?"

Ruth turns from him then, and looks across the water, the light of the moon sparkling across its surface. She doesn't answer him, and perhaps never will. "We should go back now," she says quietly, almost to herself.

Harry still doesn't know what had happened and why, but he stands, and takes Ruth's hand to help her up, and then, still grasping her hand in his, he walks her back up the beach and through the trees to the narrow track. They walk in silence until they reach Ruth's hotel. Standing together under a street light, Harry wonders whether she'll ask him to her room, but she reaches up to kiss him lightly, then says a quiet goodnight and turns to enter the front door of the hotel.

Harry feels unbearably sad as he turns, and strolls alone to his own hotel.

* * *

Harry spends a restless night. He dreams of birds flying past his window, and motor launches overturning on the open ocean. He dreams of Ruth, and she is always just out of his reach. In the morning he chooses to eat breakfast in his room, so that when his phone rings, he has just buttered his last slice of toast. He doesn't expect the caller to be Ruth. She may contact him once she has decided whether she will return to London, or remain in Cyprus, but he doesn't expect to hear from her until then.

Seeing the name of his caller, he answers cheerfully. "Wes," he says, "what can I do for you?"

"Did Ruth tell you I'm flying home on Wednesday?"

"She did, yes."

"I just thought I'd tell you, just in case you'd like to have another Coke with me."

"I have a better idea," Harry replies, suddenly revived. "How about I take the same flight home with you?" Why not? There's nothing keeping him in Cyprus.

* * *

"Do you know any jokes?" Wes asks, once they have covered every topic from what it was like living with Nico's aunt and uncle (weird) to the food in Polis (not enough pizza and burgers) and the girl, Georgia (hot).

"The best joke I know is my life," Harry says, not looking up from the paperback he'd bought at the Paphos airport.

"You're a laugh a minute, Harry. Did you know that diarrhoea is hereditary?" Harry shakes his head. "It runs in your jeans." Wes grins, digging Harry in the arm with his elbow. "Get it?"

Harry pulls his arm away from Wes. He is in no mood for jokes, but clearly Wes requires entertaining. He closes his book, and places it on the seat beside him. "Tell me more about Georgia," he says, not really wanting to know about her at all. Harry feels morose, and uncooperative, and just generally unhappy. His trip to Cyprus had not gone as planned, and he suspects he may have made an already delicate situation far worse.

"Georgia's fit," Wes says, staring out the window at the clouds below.

"So she's an athlete."

"Who said anything about athletics?"

"You said she's fit."

"It's what we say when someone is hot … really hot."

"The English language is a beautiful thing, Wes. There is no need to butcher it with crass meanings of words which are already clear to us all."

"You sound like Nan. She says that Dickens would turn in his grave if he heard me speak."

"All generations create their own language," Harry says sagely. "It's how you prevent older people from understanding what you're saying."

Wes nods, and Harry can see that the lad is already bored. Harry is not especially interested in his book, and he doesn't know how to talk to this fifteen-year-old, or any fifteen-year-old. At the same age his own son had been an enigma, and he can't even remember himself at the same age. He chances a quick glance at Wes to see the boy watching him closely. "Can I ask you something?" Wes says carefully. When Harry nods, Wes looks away for a moment before turning back to Harry. "Can you tell me about my Dad?"

"Haven't your grandparents told you about him?"

Wes shakes his head. "They're too afraid they'll upset me, and besides, talking about him reminds them that they have lost Mum. I think the subject is just too painful for them."

So this is the reason he and this boy have been thrown together in this way. Perhaps it will do him good to talk about Adam to Wes. Perhaps he needs to talk about Adam as much as Wes needs to hear it. They have four more hours together before the plane touches down at Heathrow, giving them ample time.

So Harry sits back in his seat, and once he is comfortable, he begins to talk, while Wes listens. "Your dad was a remarkable spy, Wes, but more than that, he was a warm and amusing and decent man. And what is more important, he loved you and your mother with a fierce passion. You were very loved by both your parents, and in doing what they did, they were attempting to make the world a safer place for you to grow up in." Glancing at Wes, Harry sees that he has a captive audience, so he tells the boy everything he remembers about Adam, and as he does so, the pain of his last encounter with Ruth fades ever so slightly.

* * *

By the time he returns to work the following Monday, Harry has completed every domestic chore he possibly can, including tidying his kitchen cupboards, throwing out pans and utensils he hasn't used in years. His aim has been to ensure that he leaves himself no spare time in which he can go over his conversations with Ruth, regretting words or actions spoken or held back. Not for the first time, he wonders will he ever be able to think of her without feeling hurt.

Harry's first week back at work results in him spending long hours on the Grid, having to rely on Calum Reid for analysis, one six-hour JIC meeting, and one meeting with the Russian ambassador, who was anything but pleased about the outcome of the Russian visit. Lastly, on Friday afternoon, he has an impromptu meeting with the Home Secretary. Once they have dispensed with the outcome of Jim Coaver's death – now labelled `misadventure' - and the aborted Russian visit, Towers quickly changes the subject.

"This morning I had a call from Ruth Evershed," he says, his beady eyes on Harry, who has to work hard to maintain an expression of disinterest. "She's returning to London tomorrow," Towers continues, "and I asked her to meet with me Monday lunchtime. I have a job offer for her, and the reason I need to speak with you today is to warn you that I am planning to poach her from you."

Harry doesn't know what to say to any of that. Towers' news is part joyful, to equal parts anguish. Ruth has decided to come home, but has failed to let him know, and if Towers has his way, she may not be working on the Grid with him for much longer.

"Say something, Harry. Tell me I'm a sod for wanting her working for me. Tell me I can't possibly have her."

"What Ruth does or doesn't do is her business," Harry says calmly.

"Here was I thinking you and she are … close."

"She's my intelligence analyst, and we work very closely together. If that is what you mean by close, then yes, she and I are close."

Still Towers watches him across his vast desk, the fingers of both hands steepled in front of him. "I heard that you spent your leave in Cyprus. That's also where Ruth took her leave."

"It is also where the orphaned son of one of my former operatives was staying, coincidentally with the family of Ruth's step son. I travelled back with young Wes Carter last week."

"Mmm," Towers replies, not convinced that he hasn't hit upon a fundamental truth about the section head of counter-terrorism and his intelligence analyst.

Harry returns to the Grid on Saturday morning, but when most of his team leave in mid afternoon, he decides that he could also do with an early minute. At home he pours himself a whiskey and has just sat in his winged armchair by the fireplace when his mobile phone rings. He hesitates, unsure about whether he wants to be speaking to anyone, but there is a slim chance that the caller is Ruth, so he heaves himself out of his chair and crosses the room to the kitchen. He is shocked and surprised to see the name of the caller.

"Hello, Graham," he says, hoping that his voice sounds welcoming. He and Graham haven't spoken in over six months, and they haven't seen one another in almost a year.

"Hello, Dad. I thought I'd fill you in on the latest."

Harry almost asks him whether his mother or sister had suggested he call, but he keeps that thought to himself. The last thing he needs right now is an argument with his son. "So tell me what's happened."  
"I have a decent job at last. I do website development and maintenance for a chain of plant nurseries. They have outlets in UK, France, Spain, Belgium, and a few other places. The owner is British, and … he has a daughter .."

"And?" Harry waits for Graham to tell him more.

"Her name's Jenna, and she and I are ..."

"She's your girlfriend?"

"You could say that."

"Tell me about her, son." Harry figures that if one of them is happy, then that is a good thing. The Pearce men have not until now been especially lucky with the fairer sex.

"She manages the outlets in the south of England, but that's not the most important thing." Graham waits, and Harry decided that the less he has to say, the better. "In around six months you're to be a grandfather."

He hadn't expected that. He was waiting for Graham to say that he and Jenna are moving in together, getting married, or even moving abroad, but … this is good news, and he had better pull himself together. "That's wonderful news. Congratulations. I don't know what to say. I hadn't expected that."

"You're happy about it?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"I … was afraid you'd call me irresponsible for getting my girlfriend pregnant."

"I do know what it's like to love someone, you know."

"Yeah, that's what Mum said."

"And how is your mother taking the news?"

"She's over the moon, and she's already saying she wants the baby to call her Jane. She's not having anyone calling her Grandma, or Nanna."

Harry chuckles quietly. "That sounds like her. I'd quite like to meet … Jenna," he says, hoping he hasn't spoken out of turn.

"That's the other reason I rang you. In three weeks Jenna and I are having a family get together - us, her parents, her brother and his family, and Mum and Catherine and Mark. We'd like it if you came. If there's a woman in your life, you're welcome to bring her along. The more the merrier."

Harry is sure that he's never heard Graham say `the more the merrier'. "I'd love to," he replies quickly, "but I'll be attending alone."

* * *

Harry is energised. A new child in the family. He'd always believed Catherine would be the first of his children to present him and Jane with a grandchild. Perhaps fatherhood will be good for Graham. He certainly hopes so.

He visits the local shops, and buys some chicken pieces and fresh vegetables and herbs. He is in the mood for making himself a decent meal. To accompany the meal, he buys a few bottles of Californian white wine. As he moves around the kitchen, chopping vegetables, and slicing the chicken breasts, he finds that he is whistling. Is it possible that he is happy? He has not forgotten that a little less than two weeks earlier he may have lost Ruth forever. She may be returning to London, and even to her job beside him on the Grid, but surely she will see the position Towers is offering her as a way out of having to work in close association with him.

He has eaten his meal, and tidied, washing and drying the dishes. Having drunk two glasses of wine with dinner, he is contemplating a third, when he hears the front doorbell ringing, not once or twice, but three sharp rings. He sighs heavily. Who could possibly be at his front door at eight-thirty on a Saturday evening? He can't think of anybody, so his curiosity has him lifting himself out of his chair, and to his front door. He pulls open the door, intending to convey his irritation to his unwelcome caller.

But his caller isn't unwelcome. "Hello Harry," she says. "Can I come in?"

How can he possibly say no?


	4. Chapter 4

_**A/N : M-ish warning!**_

 _ **And while email alerts are not occurring, please note that I update this fic every weekend, and then again mid-week. None of this shows when the Mi5/Spooks archive is checked, and you may have to scroll down a long way to find this fic. Thanks all for persisting despite the inconvenience.**_

* * *

He has led her to the kitchen where he's offered her food. "Have you eaten?" he'd asked, and she'd shaken her head. He then lights the burners below the rice and the chicken and vegetables, finding that he enjoys looking after her. Arranging food on a plate for Ruth is a pleasure as real as holding her body against his own. As he places her plate on the table in front of her, he silently prays that this will not be the last time he can look after her in this way.

"You'll have to excuse me," he says quietly, and Ruth lifts her eyes to his in a question. "I need to take a shower, so while you're eating ..." and he takes a step towards the doorway.

"I was hoping we could talk while I eat," she says, disappointment and confusion in her frown.

Harry hesitates, wondering whether this time he is the one moving away from the chance of intimacy with her. "I spent the day at work, and I .." he says, as with two fingers he pulls the fabric of his shirt away from his chest.

Ruth nods, lifting her eyes to the upstairs. "Go," she says, "I'll still be here when you get back."

And she is. He'd showered and shaved in record time, choosing to wear casual slacks and a long-sleeved, open-necked shirt. "Wine?" he asks, taking an opened bottle from the fridge, and pouring a glass for them each. In Harry's estimation, the evening is shaping up rather well.

He takes a seat at the table, and lifting his eyes to hers, he raises his glass in a toast. "To better times," he says, "for us." He notices Ruth drop her eyes, and he hopes he hasn't assumed too much.

"I have to apologise," she says at last, "for the way I behaved … at the beach … that night."

She has no need to clarify the night she means. There was only one night, and they'd parted company both upset and bewildered. Harry wants to say that it was all right, but he's determined to be truthful, and truthfully, what had happened that night was far from all right with him. He watches her closely, hoping she is about to explain what she means.

"I had this fanciful idea that I'd step back into Nico's life … taking up where I'd left off when we fled Polis." Ruth drops her eyes once more, and Harry can see that she is embarrassed, and perhaps ashamed. "While in Polis, he was happy to be spending time with me, but … I should have known that Nico at fourteen would be a long way from the small boy he'd been … back then. I accompanied him to Nicosia, hoping he'd allow me to … mother him. I thought he might stay with me in my hotel for the first few nights. I'd even booked a room for him, but … he couldn't wait to get to his school … and his friends. When I woke on Wednesday morning it hit me. Christina is his mother now, and … I am … no-one to him, and perhaps I never was." Harry feels his heart breaking for her, but he doesn't interrupt. Ruth needs to tell someone, and since he is the person she has chosen to speak to, he'd best listen. He watches her closely, and he can see the tears welling in her eyes. "I was only ever a fill-in mother. After all, that's what step-mothers are. They step in for the child's real mother. Christina is George's sister, so she is his family, not me."

Ruth says nothing more, and Harry knows that he needs to say something, and he must be truthful with her. He waits silently, watching her as she plays with the stem of her wine glass, trying hard to hold in the tears which shine in her eyes. "You did a wonderful job with him, Ruth. You stepped into his mother's shoes and treated him as you would your own child."

"You don't know that." Ruth's expression is cold, hiding her hurt.

"I know you. I know how much he meant to you."

Ruth nods. "You're right. He did mean everything to me, but I have to let him go." She sighs, breaking eye contact with Harry, and watching her own fingers as she turns her wine glass around and around. "I suppose that … that night on the beach at Polis … I thought I was saying goodbye to the possibility of there being anything more for .. us, but all along, I was saying goodbye to Nico. I just hadn't wanted to see that."

Harry nods. "But you still have me, Ruth. If you want me, that is." He waits for what seems a very long time, while Ruth's eyes focus on her wine glass.

Time passes painfully slowly, and Harry doesn't take his eyes from her. Eventually, after long minutes, Ruth lifts her eyes to his, and he can see the tears on her cheeks and the grief clouding her eyes. Ruth has lost more than Nico. She has lost the children they would never have. He already has children, while Ruth has none, and he can only imagine how fundamentally this understanding has rocked her.

His heart almost bursts with love for her as he quietly stands and walks around the table to her side. He hasn't planned what he will do next, but his instinct is to comfort her. As he reaches down to take her hand, she turns towards him. With Ruth, nothing is ever easy, or straightforward. She could easily step into his arms, or she could retreat from him, sinking back within her memories. Very slowly Ruth stands, so that Harry can slide his arms around her and draw her close to him. He has no sexual intention. His only motivation is to comfort her, and to convey to her that she doesn't have to go through this alone. He holds her for a long time, while she cries quietly, her forehead pressed into his shoulder.

When her tears stop, they pull apart so that Harry can grab a box of tissues from the counter beside the cooker. "It's warmer in the living room," he says gently, handing the tissue box to her.

* * *

They sit on the sofa side by side. Harry has Radio 3 turned low, needing the music to accompany, rather than intrude. They have been sitting in silence for some minutes before Harry decides he should say something. He also has news, and it is lighter news than Ruth's. Acting against a small inner voice which insists that he should keep the news to himself for now, he shares with her his phone call from his son.

"That's wonderful, Harry," she says, and she sounds like she means it. "Are you pleased?"

"I am, actually. I'd often wondered when or if my children would present me with the next generation, and I'd almost given up expecting it to happen, and so ..." His voice fades, recognising the insensitivity of his sharing with her his joy over the approaching birth of his grandchild, while Ruth is grieving the loss of Nico.

The silence which falls between them is charged with Harry's embarrassment, and Ruth's indecision, until she speaks. "It's all right," she says. "I don't mind you telling me about your children. Just because I can no longer mother my … step son, it doesn't mean that you should never mention your children around me."

He can feel her watching him, and he turns to see kindness in her eyes. He nods towards her, conveying his understanding. Ruth is upset about losing Nico, but that isn't reason for him to hide his joy over the approaching birth of his grandchild. He longs to touch her again, but the moment isn't quite right.

"I never meant to hurt you, Harry, or to … minimise … us."

"I know that."

"I was just so focused on being with Nico again, and … replacing the mother he'd lost long ago, before I came on the scene." Harry knows that. He also knows that she's speaking as much to herself as she is to him. She is driving home the reality that Nico is no longer hers to lose, and perhaps hadn't been from the moment the bullet had entered George's skull. "He told me he'll text me, and email me, but I don't expect regular contact. He was just … appeasing me."

Just as Ruth turns to look at Harry, her eyes pleading his forgiveness, his phone rings. He decides to ignore it, but it keeps ringing.

"Answer it," Ruth says quietly. "It might be work."

Harry takes his phone to the kitchen to answer it. It is work. It is Calum, having just arrived home from Newcastle, where he's been for the past three days. "Calum," he says, dragging his thoughts from the events of the past half hour.

What follows is Calum's assessment of a situation in the northern city, having been reported by an asset of Calum's who lives in Sunderland. Harry asks questions, and Calum answers. Twenty minutes later, Harry's phone call ends.

When he returns to the living room, he recognises a Bartok Violin Concerto on Radio 3, while on the sofa, Ruth is lying on her side, her head resting on two cushions. Her eyes are closed, and she breathes deeply and slowly. Harry has a moment of indecision. Should he wake her, offering to drive her home, or should he leave her be, covering her with a duvet from the spare room?

He chooses the latter option, and then pours himself a whiskey, taking it to his favourite chair, where he sits so that he can watch Ruth as she sleeps. It has barely gone ten, but Ruth has had a difficult few days, culminating in her acknowledging that her role in Nico's life has reached its natural conclusion, and perhaps had done the moment George died. She is exhausted, and so he will let her sleep, and if when morning comes she is still on his sofa, then they will deal with that then.

Harry sits so that he can keep an eye on Ruth. He tells himself that his attention is not so much voyeuristic as protective. Ruth would call him on the semantics, and suggest that protecting can so easily become a spectator sport. Ruth's face while she sleeps is peaceful, the lines of distress ironed out by sheer emotional depletion. If this is to be the one and only night he can spend with her, then he wants to spend it being close to her.

Once he finishes his third whiskey, Harry feels his eyelids drooping. He knows it must be close to midnight, and as much as he'd like to sleep in his chair, his back will object, and he'll regret the decision in the morning. In his own room, he strips down to his undershirt and trunks before sliding under the duvet. Within minutes he is asleep.

* * *

Harry is dreaming that he is navigating a long dark tunnel, and he can feel someone close behind him, closing in on him. Up ahead he hears a voice, a familiar voice, and it is calling his name. "Harry," she says, and her voice is faint. " _Harry_." This time her voice carries an urgency. "Are you awake?" she says after a long silence, and that is when he opens his eyes to a darkened room.

"Harry … are you in there?" Ruth speaks in a rather loud whisper.

He sits up in bed, and the cold air in his bedroom bites his nose and lips, so he throws back the duvet, and grabs his dressing gown from over the back of the chair, drawing it tightly around him, slides his feet into his slippers, and hurries to the door. "You'd best come in," he says, opening the door to see Ruth standing there, dressed in her clothing from the previous day, her hair awry and her feet bare. "You can sleep in my bed … only if you want to. I first have to use the loo," he adds, turning to hurry into the en suite.

As he stands at the toilet peeing, he wonders what made him invite her to sleep in his bed, and, why he had to mention that he was heading to the loo. Neither suggestion is terribly romantic, nor in keeping with an invitation to intimacy. Back in his bedroom, Ruth has correctly surmised that he sleeps on the side of the bed closest to the door, and so by the time he climbs into bed she is under the duvet, with only her head showing, her eyes wide and dark in the low light.

"It's only four," she says in a loud whisper, "but I got cold … and a little bit scared. Your house creaks and groans."

"That was probably my back and knees creaking." Very carefully, so as not to touch her under the duvet, Harry shuffles down in bed, turning his head to look at her. They are sharing his bed for company and warmth, and no more, he tells himself. He must not allow himself to get his hopes up.

"I thought we could talk," she says, turning to face him.

"It's barely four, Ruth, and I need more than four hours sleep." He turns away from her, and rests on his side, with one hand beneath his cheek. They are both vulnerable, and he doesn't want them to be doing anything they might later regret.

Harry is almost asleep when he feels Ruth's arm slide around his waist. He is tempted to remove it, but there is something comforting about having her this close, with her hand resting on his belly. He smiles into the dark, and again closes his eyes.

* * *

When next he wakes, he is immediately aware that something in the room has changed. All around him is the half light of pre-dawn, and beside him a warm presence lies close to him. Mentally he checks his body; he is very warm all over, as well as half erect. That of itself is not unusual, but there is also a hand beneath his undershirt. He lies very still, enjoying the gentle touch of Ruth's fingers as she explores the skin beneath his shirt. He very slowly breathes out, before turning his head to see Ruth's eyes on him. It is when her fingers dip beneath the waistband of his trunks that he reaches down to grasp her hand, effectively bringing a halt to her exploration.

"Perhaps we need to talk about this first," he says quietly.

Ruth's immediate reaction is to roll on to her back, breaking contact with him. After a long moment, she says, "You're the first man I've met who'd rather talk than have sex."

"That's not what I meant. I think that … since it's us, this … what we're about to do … needs to have meaning."

Again, Ruth rolls on to her side, and he can see the flinty fire of anger in her eyes. "It _will_ have meaning. Can't you see? Because it's you and me it will have meaning. How can anything which happens between us not have meaning?" She's right, of course. How could he not have understood that? He hopes he hasn't threatened this rare opportunity. He watches her, waiting for her to say more. "Are you afraid of me, Harry? Are you afraid I'll not … enjoy us together?"

"Of course not." This time it is he who turns on his side to face her, their faces only inches apart. "I have no doubt you'll enjoy it. But you have to know … that I haven't been intimate with anyone for some time."

"Then I hope you haven't forgotten how to do it." Her expression is playful, so it appears they are over the worst.

"No, Ruth, I haven't forgotten. I ..."

"What?"

"I'm fifty-seven ..."

"I am aware of that," she says quietly, and rather gently.

"… and if you're expecting a repeat performance after breakfast, then I won't be able to … manage that, as much as I may want to."

Ruth's eyes glow as she smiles a gentle smile, then reaches towards him to place her lips on his. It is a soft kiss, quickly over. She pulls away a little, her eyes on his. "That's a relief," she says lightly. "I can't abide men who insist on flaunting their libido."

Harry already has one arm around her, and he rolls closer. Their faces are so close that they are almost the one person. This time it is he who initiates the kiss. It is a deep and sensual, soulful experience, and after some time he feels her body pressing against his, sliding one leg between his legs, so that his erection nestles against her pubic bone, tantalisingly close to her heat.

Reluctantly, they pull apart to remove clothing, carelessly tossing it on the floor beside the bed. "I apologise in advance if this is too quick," he breathes, before he returns to kissing her, his hands exploring her bare skin, while her fingers have found his cock, sliding along his length until he pulls away with a quickly indrawn breath.

"I can't wait any longer," she breathes, grasping his waist to draw him over her, before her hands move to his buttocks, where she squeezes his flesh, pulling him closer, towards her heat.

Nor can he wait. They have waited years for this, and even had he wanted to, he is not prepared to wait a moment longer.

* * *

When next he wakes, Harry opens his eyes to find daylight streaming through the gap in the curtains. He turns his head to find that he is alone in bed. Leaning over the side of the bed, he sees his own and Ruth's clothing strewn across the hardwood floor like debris left behind after a storm. Their love making _had_ simulated a storm – a sudden, intense, wild, and life-changing hurricane. He hadn't made love that way since those few mad weeks he'd spent with Juliet Shaw. He lies still, wondering where Ruth could be. Once he allows his thoughts to quieten, he can hear her voice, its mellow tones reaching his ears from downstairs.

He finds her in the kitchen, standing at the counter waiting for the kettle to boil. The clock on the microwave announces that it is 8.37 - the latest he has slept for years. Harry steps quietly towards Ruth, aiming to surprise her, but as he reaches her she turns, a welcoming smile on her face. He slides his arms around her, while she winds her arms around his neck, drawing his face closer. They kiss hungrily before pulling apart, their hands still on the other.

"That dressing gown looks better on you than me," he says, noting that she is also wearing his socks, the ones he'd worn the evening before. He reaches down to kiss her again, a brief kiss, but full of meaning. "Who were you talking to?"

"I'm sorry if I woke you. My phone rang just after eight. It was Nico."

Harry takes a small step away from her, breaking contact between them. "He rang you?"

Ruth nods, then smiles. "He had some good news for me." As is her way, she hesitates before she continues. "The first thing is that he's flying to spend a weekend with Wes at his grandparents' house."

"When?"

"The weekend after next. It's to be Wes's first rugby match in the school's first team. The next thing he had to tell me ..." and again she hesitates, lifting her eyes to Harry's, "is that next year he'll be spending the winter-spring semester at Wes's school." Harry frowns, needing answers. "There's an exchange program between Nicosia Academy and St Sebastian's. In January of each year, four students from each school spend the first half of the year at the other school. Nico said he's looking forward to seeing me."

"That's wonderful news, Ruth." And it is. Harry wouldn't want her to be unhappy, and being estranged from Nico has made her unhappy. "I have an an idea," he says.


	5. Chapter 5

Two weeks later – Saturday afternoon:

Harry is standing alone at the sidelines of the school rugby field, his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his coat, his eyes following Wes Carter as he ducks and weaves, passing the ball back to Jamie Maddern, the other young star of St Sebastian's first fifteen. Harry finds himself becoming involved in the match. The sweet scent of newly-mown turf, the slap of skin against skin, and skin against the ball, the cries of youthful voices accompanied by a chorus of parental encouragement all serve to bring his own rugby-playing past tumbling into the present. "Top pass, Wes," he shouts above the calls and cries of other supporters.

Feeling a hand sliding through his arm, he turns to see Ruth smiling into his eyes. Beside her, Nico Kyriakou stands a little apart, clearly embarrassed to be in the company of two such old people who see nothing wrong with openly expressing affection for one another. Harry and Ruth have already discussed how much Nico needs to know about his own role in George's death, and they've agreed that what the boy doesn't know can't hurt him. "All he knows is that you and I were being held hostage," she had told him on the drive there, "and that George was shot by terrorists because he got in their way." Harry is not so sure that Nico will always be satisfied with that sketchy story, but for now, the lad seems content.

Harry nods to Nico, who nods back. He is taller than he'd been back when Ruth and George and Nico had fled Polis, although he still has the same round face and large brown eyes. Harry has noticed that Nico watches him closely, but says little, and he wonders is the boy annoyed with him for taking his father's place in Ruth's life. Ruth had shared with him her explanation of their relationship to Nico. "I told him we'd loved one another for a long time, and that when I met his father I'd believed I'd never see you again."

"How did he take that?" Harry had asked.

"Thoughtfully."

Harry sees Nico as a thoughtful child, and he can understand how it is he and Wes get on so well. They are both thoughtful adolescents, and while Wes is outgoing, Nico always thinks before he speaks, and when in Harry's presence he barely speaks at all.

When the game is over, Wes wanders over to the three of them, shaking Harry's hand, kissing Ruth on the cheek, and fist-bumping Nico. "Good game, Wes," Nico says, smiling at his friend.

"The object of the game is that we win," Wes replies sarcastically. His team had lost 46-32. "My Nan would like a word with you," Wes says to Harry, grasping the front of his jersey to wipe the perspiration from his face.

Harry leaves Ruth with the two boys, while he walks around the perimeter of the rugby field to where Wes's grandmother is sitting in a fold-up chair, a rug covering her knees. "Hello, Ava," Harry says, sitting on the vacant chair beside her. Ava Carrington is no more than eight or ten years older than him, and she is still a striking woman, Fiona having inherited her bone structure. Ava watches him closely before speaking.

"I hope you don't mind me taking you from your little family, Harry, but Ted isn't terribly well, so he's sitting in the car, itching to go home."

Harry nods. It is generally known that Fiona's father had suffered his first heart attack only weeks after her death, and his health has never recovered. "I'm sorry to hear that," he says.

"I have to consider the possibility that he hasn't much time left." Harry observes her fingers as they busily fold the fabric of the rug over and over, in a compulsive and unconscious action similar to Ruth's. "I know we'd agreed for Wes and Nick to have dinner with you, but I have to get Ted home, and … I need Wes to help me with him." Harry nods. While Ruth will understand, she'll be disappointed. "But that's not the main reason I wanted to speak with you." Ava drops her eyes to her hands while she organises her thoughts. "When Ted eventually … leaves us, I need to consider what is best for Wes. I have discussed this with him, and he is happy to be spending some of his school holidays in Cyprus with the Kyriakou family. I was hoping that you could also have him for a weekend here and there." For the first time, Ava smiles. "He seems to like you. He told me you were `cool' … whatever that means."

Harry twists his mouth to one side. Cool is hardly an apt word to describe him. "I'll have to discuss the matter with Ruth," he says. "Our relationship is quite new, but I think she'll be happy for us to have Wes … maybe one weekend a month." He waits, pondering the wisdom of his next statement. "I have to congratulate you and Ted, Ava. You've done a sterling job with Wes. He's turning into a fine young man."

"Thank you. It hasn't always been easy. He missed Fiona and Adam so terribly at first, and he was hard to reach. He's easier now, although he announced only this morning that if he can't make it as a professional rugby player, he wants to be a magician ... or a comedian."

Harry chuckles. "He'd no doubt make a fine magician," he says, "and he's already something of a comedian."

On the drive back to London, Harry shares with Ruth his conversation with Ava.

"Of course I'm happy about that," Ruth says when he mentions the possibility of Wes staying with them for one weekend a month. "Who knows? Some of Wes's cool might rub off on you."

Harry darts a quick look at her before again giving the road ahead his full attention. "Ava told me Wes thinks I'm already cool."

Ruth places her hand in front of her mouth to stifle her laugh. "What?" Harry asks.

"Nothing," Ruth replies. "It will be like an instant family for us," she says after some time.

"Speaking of families ..." Harry replies, not taking his eyes from the road.

* * *

One week later – Saturday afternoon:

Harry feels the tension in Ruth's body as she stands beside him at the window, surveying the back garden of this impressive house. He grasps her hand, squeezing it in encouragement. "Imagine everyone dressed only in their underwear," he says.

Ruth frowns up at him. "You're the only person on earth I want to imagine in their underwear," she says bluntly.

They had been led through the house by a man called Cyrus who had politely informed them he was the family's butler. "Who in the twenty-first century employs a butler?" Harry had said to Ruth, perhaps a little too loudly.

"You're just jealous," she'd replied. "You'd love to have a butler serving you whiskey from a silver tray."

The back garden is huge. A wide area of lawn is bordered by shrubs and small trees, and flowering annuals. The centre of the garden features an ornamental pond, while off to one side a lap pool nestles beside a pool house with a connecting deck for sunbathing. "It looks like they also employ a gardener," Harry says grumpily.

"And a pool cleaner," Ruth adds. "It's all a bit Downton Abbey," she adds.

"How so?"

"I believe there's old money … on Jenna's mother's side."

"You looked them up?"

Ruth nods and smiles. "And all this space. It's just a show of status. And now Lord Grantham is marrying off his precious daughter to the chauffeur."

"Graham's not a chauffeur," Harry replies quickly.

Just then, they hear footsteps approaching from another room, and they both turn to see a young man approaching. His resemblance to Harry is immediately evident. "Dad," he says, "so glad you could make it."

Harry is relieved to note that his son is alone, and that the beard has gone. With Ruth's hand still firmly in his grasp, Harry takes a few steps, before dropping Ruth's hand to reach out to Graham. "It's so good to see you," Harry says, "after all this time."

Graham's smile is wary, but he shakes Harry's hand, and then reaches out towards Ruth. "You must be Ruth. I'm happy to meet you."

Harry watches Ruth's face proudly as she smiles into Graham's eyes and shakes his hand. "I believe congratulations are in order," she says.

"Thanks. It was a surprise, but a good one."

Harry is almost certain that Graham had been planning to say something more, something to just him and Ruth, when more people descend upon them, eager to be introduced. Downton Abbey or not, they appear to be a friendly lot.

"Everyone," Graham said, addressing the whole of Jenna's family, "this is my dad, Harry, and his partner, Ruth. This is ..." and Graham introduces everyone by name, quickly pointing to each person in turn.

What follows is a cacophonous milling of bodies around them. Harry is overwhelmed, while Ruth appears in her element. Ruth and Jenna, a slightly built young woman with shoulder length hair the colour of straw, hit it off immediately, and Harry can only stand by and watch in admiration.

"A meal will be served in around fifteen minutes," Jenna's mother purrs, indicating the conservatory next door before she also leaves, taking Jenna with her, while Graham stays with his father and Ruth.

No sooner do the others leave than they are joined by an attractive middle-aged woman who lifts one eyebrow at Harry, and then Ruth. "And you know my mum Jane, of course," Graham adds quietly.

"I don't," Ruth says, reaching out to shake the hand of the smartly dressed woman. "It's good to meet you," she says, smiling. Beside her Harry breathes out heavily, relieved that the meeting of his ex-wife and his lover has passed without blood-letting. He doesn't know exactly what he'd expected. Neither woman is prone to cat fights, and given they have him in common, surely it would be in their best interests to get along. It's not as though they'd be seeing one another often.

Hearing laughter from the next room, Graham leads them all into a large and bright conservatory. "Bloody hell," Harry says close to Ruth's ear, "it's the size of a ball room."

"Bigger," Jane says, equally as quietly, from just behind them. "They could house at least four refugee families in the conservatory alone."

"Or a sitting of Parliament," Ruth adds, equally as quietly.

Harry chances a glance at Ruth to see her smiling widely at Jane. He breathes out in relief. If nothing else, his ex and his present partner appear to appreciate one another. When Catherine and Mark enter the conservatory, accompanied by a small girl, Ruth digs Harry's arm with her elbow. "Who's she?" she asks.

"Surely you remember my daughter."

"Not Catherine. The child."

"It's Ashley's and Isabel's daughter – Jenna's niece," Jane says, from beside Ruth's elbow, where she seems to have taken up residence. "I believe her name is Emily. Graham's child will be Dean's and Heather's second grandchild. They're hoping for a grandson."

"I told you we'd stumbled into Downton Abbey," Ruth quips, just to Harry and Jane.

"No pressure then," Harry says, reaching forward to shake Mark's hand before he embraces his daughter. "There's someone I'd like you to meet," he says, turning to present Ruth to his daughter. To his delight, Ruth and Catherine immediately like one another.

With the worst of the day behind them, Harry takes a glass of wine from a tray being proffered by the very proper Cyrus, and stands back while Catherine, Jane and Ruth wander off together, all three talking at once. Harry hovers in the shadows between two large potted palms, watching the three women, while hoping no-one will seek him out before he is ready and willing to be sociable, which may well be never. The only person he wishes to speak to is Ruth. He is marvelling at how easily Ruth interacts with Jane and Catherine when Jenna's father, Dean, suddenly appears beside him.

"We like your son, Harry," Dean says smoothly. "He's steady and reliable, and a good worker, and he treats our Jenna well." Harry is surprised by Dean's working class London accent.

"Any credit for Graham must go to his mother," Harry says.

The two men exchange information about their families, something Harry is reluctant to do, his spy persona rising to protect those he loves, along with those he had once loved. When (thankfully) Dean wanders away, he is almost immediately replaced by Jane.

"I really like Ruth," Jane says, and Harry turns towards her to see she is smiling.

"So do I."

"Is it serious?" Jane continues.

"Yes." Harry doesn't wish to be discussing his relationship with Ruth with anyone, and especially not Jane. "I hear you're looking forward to becoming a grandmother," he says, changing the subject.

Jane lifts one eyebrow. Harry is never sure about the raised eyebrow. Being Jane, it could mean anything from `fuck you' to `I find you hilarious. "You've been talking to Graham," she replies at last.

Harry watches his ex-wife closely, noting that she is still a very attractive woman, although he can detect a shadow of deep sadness in her eyes, a leftover from her years of depression following the very messy end to their marriage. "What will the baby call you?" he asks. "I thought I might be Granddad."

Harry doesn't miss the look of distaste which flits across Jane's face. "That makes you sound ancient."

"I am ancient, and so are you."

"So you've found yourself a younger woman to keep you young."

"Ruth's just Ruth," he replies. "Her age is irrelevant."

Before Jane can answer him they are joined by Catherine and Ruth, closely followed by Jenna and her mother, Heather. "The meal is about to be served," Heather says brightly. "Please help yourselves, otherwise Cyrus will spoon feed you. True story," she adds.

Harry reaches a hand towards Ruth, who takes it in hers, and smiles up at him. "Having fun?" she asks. He doesn't have an answer to that, so he just rolls his eyes.

"Can we go home soon?" he pleads, his mouth close to Ruth's ear.

"We can't leave yet. There's food." Harry groans.

For Harry, the afternoon drags on, and by the end of it he admits that Ruth is definitely his better half, comfortable and at ease at gatherings such as this. A group of spies he can handle, but he finds polite social gatherings excruciating.

When they leave, Catherine and Graham accompany them to Harry's car. "We'll have to get together soon," Graham says, "without the entourage."

And they all agree that is a very good idea.

* * *

Six months later - 4th March 2012:

Seven weeks after the death of Wes's grandfather, Wes and Nico spend the weekend with Ruth and Harry, who have been living together in Harry's house since Christmas.

Ruth is in the kitchen keeping an eye on Nico while he makes a cake. Harry has noticed that she is unnaturally quiet, and since Ruth has noticed that he has noticed, she is choosing to maintain distance between them.

In the living room, Wes has just demonstrated some of his burgeoning magic skills to Harry, who is worried about Ruth, but can't approach her until the boys have returned to school. "Let's go outside," Harry says to Wes.

"Where are they?" Nico asks, as ten minutes later he and Ruth enter the living room from the kitchen, taking a break while the cake is in the oven.

Ruth looks through the double glass doors to see Harry and Wes standing at the edge of the garden, deep in conversation. Nico makes a move to join them, when Ruth grasps his arm. "Not now, Nico. They're talking. Wes likes talking to Harry .. alone."

Nico appears displeased, but he does as he's told. Unlike Wes, he is a compliant lad. "What do they talk about?" he asks.

"I don't know. I never ask."

After the cake is removed from the oven, cooled on a wire cake cooler, and then iced with chocolate icing, Harry and Ruth drive Wes and Nico and the cake back to St Sebastian's School. The boys wave them off, declaring the weekend a success, and that they are already looking forward to their next visit in four weeks.

Back on the motorway Harry decides that given Ruth can't escape while they're travelling, it's time they talked. "Wes asked me about the requirements for joining the intelligence service," he says, chiefly to break the ice. When Ruth says nothing, he glances towards her to see her staring thoughtfully through the windscreen. "Everything okay with you?" he asks, but still she is silent. He is about to give up on the idea of a heart-to-heart with her when she speaks.

"I'm … not sure," she says quietly.

"Ruth?"

"I … can't talk about this here .. in the car."

"Is it about us?" Harry is suddenly very afraid. He'd thought they were fine, but what would he know?

"Can it wait until we get home?"

And so Harry holds in his fear for them, for her, and focuses on driving, hoping this is not about to be the end of the road for them. If it is, then he is determined to fight for her, and for them.

* * *

 _ **A/N : Just an epilogue to go. To be published in 2-3 days.**_


	6. Chapter 6

_**A/N : This is the epilogue, and final chapter to this brief story. Thank you to all who have persisted with it through the absence of email alerts, and as always a big thanks to the reviewers. To quote Sigma Creations, "Reviews are ... the currency in which we fanfic writers get paid."**_

* * *

Following on - 4th March 2012:

Once they arrive home, Ruth hurries inside, quickly removing her coat and hanging it on a hook beside the front door. By the time Harry enters the house, she is already in the kitchen, where eventually he joins her. He'd like to again make an attempt at conversation, but Ruth has filled the electric kettle, and is fiddling with a teapot and two mugs, so he takes a seat at the table and waits. If she has something to say, he must wait until she is ready.

Ruth places the teapot, milk, sugar, mugs and spoons on the table between them, and sits quietly while Harry pours a cup of tea for them both. When that is done, Ruth is ready to speak.

"This is about us, but it's also about me," Ruth begins, and Harry feels his stomach beginning to tip and turn. He drops his eyes to his mug of tea, lifting it between his hands and blowing across the surface, even though he already knows it is cool enough to drink. He just wishes she'd get it over with. "You may have noticed I've been quiet today." He had, and it has frightened him more than anything else has the power to frighten him. "This morning I got out of bed early." He'd noticed. He'd been hoping for a cuddle, or even something more before the boys awoke. "I went straight to the bathroom, and that was when I discovered that I was no longer pregnant."

Harry's dart upwards to meet her own. " _Pregnant_? You were pregnant? But why didn't you say something?"

"I didn't want to tell you until another week had passed."

"You did a pregnancy test?" Ruth nods. "And you didn't tell me?"

"Harry … I know now that was the wrong thing to have done. I didn't know how you'd react. I know you don't want more children, so ..."

"How far along were you?"

Ruth's eyes dart up to meet his, before they again drop. "Six weeks. I wanted to wait another week before telling you."

Six weeks! He is confused … and hurt … and sad … for her, for them. "But it was _our_ child, Ruth. Didn't I at least have a right to know about it?"

"I was planning to tell you on Friday night, after I navigate next week. I have all that analysis on the Turkish contingent to -"

"I know how busy you are at the Home Office, but this is something which affects me as much as it does you."

"I know that now, and I'm sorry. It's just that I was afraid about how … you'd react."

Harry sits back in his chair and sighs, passing one hand down his face. "You really wanted this baby … didn't you?" he asks. This time his voice is kind, rather than accusing.

When she nods, he notices a tear running down her cheek, and it is then he realises that perhaps he's being too hard on her. Without thinking about it any further he stands and walks around the table, sitting in the chair next to hers, before wrapping his arms around her, and pulling her close. She doesn't cry, but he can feel the tension in her body. After a minute or two he begins to rub her back in a wide circular motion, and it is only then that he senses her relaxing as she sinks against him in a show of trust. He acknowledges that this is not even about him. Ruth is having to grieve her lost child – yet another lost child – and he'd best accept it, and listen closely to what she has to say.

"We can try again if you like," he says, not sure if he really means it.

Very slowly Ruth sits up, then turns to look at him. "I know you don't really mean that, Harry. We slipped up and I got pregnant, and now I'm not. The only thing we need to do is to change our method of contraception."

"I don't wish to be the one to deny you something which is clearly so important to you," he says quietly.

Suddenly Ruth gets up from her chair, and walks to the sink, where she stands, staring out at the early evening dark. "You order takeaway, Harry, and I'll tidy this lot."

The discussion is clearly over. Ruth has said all she has to say on the subject. They have navigated the moment, but Harry is still not satisfied that the subject has been put to bed. He takes out his phone and calls the local Indian takeaway.

* * *

They agree that, being Sunday, they could do with an early night. Ruth is already in bed, and Harry is in the en suite cleaning his teeth when his mobile rings from his bedside table. "Can you get that?" he calls, having spat out a mouthful of toothpaste before it dribbled down his chin.

He listens to the murmur of Ruth's voice, and then the silence as she listens, so that by the time he hears her call his name he is about to enter the bedroom.

"It's good news," she says, smiling up at him, handing him the phone.

Harry takes the phone from her, and stands beside the bed, removing his dressing gown with one hand while he listens to his son telling him that earlier that evening Jenna had given birth to a healthy baby boy. He listens further while Graham prattles on, the happiest he's heard him since he was a child.

"Thanks for letting us know, and give our love to Jenna and the baby," he says, before he ends the call. "They're calling him Benjamin," Harry says, climbing under the duvet and shuffling closer to Ruth, "after my brother."

"Yes, he told me. Dean's father was also called Benjamin, and he died when Dean was a boy." Ruth turns to slide her arm around him, nuzzling her face into the curve of his shoulder. "Are you excited about Benjamin?"

"Of course. But I've had time to get used to the idea."

"Unlike my little bombshell earlier." Harry nods. "I'm sorry that I hadn't told you I was pregnant. Looking at it now, it seems a … strange thing to have done. Not the getting pregnant bit – that wasn't strange at all – but not telling you was cruel."

Harry takes a while to reply, and then he is hesitant. "I can't understand how you could keep a secret like that from me -"

"I said I'm sorry."

"It's all right, Ruth. I'm not angry … just confused .. and in awe of your self control. Were I you, I wouldn't have been able to keep something that important from you for all those weeks."

They lie together in silence for a long time, and this time it is Harry who speaks first.

"I know that you'd like a child of your own, and I can't blame you for wanting that. I think I'm too old to live though the baby and toddler and -"

"I know, and I agree."

Harry pulls away a little, so that he can look Ruth in the eye. "I was going to say that for you, I'm prepared to do it."

"I'm not. I don't want to foist on to you a child which you don't really want, and that's why I was too afraid to tell you I was pregnant. I knew you'd push aside your own needs so that I could have what I wanted, and that's just not fair – to you or the child."

"I wonder was it a boy or a girl."

"It was a mass of cells which didn't develop quite right," Ruth says, and he detects the finality in her voice.

"Shouldn't you … get yourself checked out … medically?"

"I intend to. Tomorrow."

Again Harry pulls her close to him, and kisses her on her temple. Ruth turns around and lifts her face for him to kiss. "I know you were afraid, Harry, back when I began to tell you what had been wrong, and I need you to know that I love you."

"That's good, and you already know that I love you."

"I do, but it's good to hear you say it."

It was. Only two hours earlier he'd believed he was looking down the barrel at the end of their relationship. He had looked into a future without Ruth, and it had been a dark and lonely place. He doesn't want that for himself, and he certainly doesn't want it for Ruth. She deserves the very best, and he is determined to be the very best he can be for her.

"You're thinking again," she says quietly.

"I am, but they're happy thoughts."

"As are mine," she replies. "I'm just happy I have you."

"And I haven't the words to express how happy I am to have you, Ruth."

Never had Harry been more honest, nor content.

 _Fin_


End file.
